


We are good people, and we have suffered enough

by Aledane



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Disabled Character, Dom/sub, Enjolras survived the barricade, Explicit Sexual Content, Grantaire needs a hug, Grantaire went through some heavy shit, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Slavery, The others weren't so lucky, or so he thought
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2019-12-07 16:36:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18237473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aledane/pseuds/Aledane
Summary: He lifted his eyes and immediately froze, stuck by a lightning.There was a face behind the carriage’s window, staring at him from afar. Blue eyes on pale skin. A ghost from the past.The year is 1835. June will always be cold to Enjolras. He has his cane to relieve the pain in his leg and Lamarque's legacy to carry. No one said that surviving a rebellion would feel so much like being dead anyway.And suddently, Grantaire is there, alive. Hurt and terrified and broken, but alive nonetheless.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "We deserve a soft epilogue, my love."
> 
>  
> 
> Warning : this is some heavy shit. I will try to warn you chapter by chapter so you can skip the problematic parts if you think you might be triggered by this kind of content.  
> For this chapter : disabled character and undertones of PTSD

Like always, it was his leg that woke him.

Most days, he could ignore it the way he had ignored all the problems in his life: by burying it under work until his head was so _full_ that he just couldn't think anymore. But there were days where the dull, aching pain felt the need to make itself known, like a dagger in his side. These days, he had to go out. Walking, if not always efficient enough to take the pain away, relieved at least a part of it. 

Enjolras sighed and took the cane put against the wall. The wood fitted in his hand like a glove, smooth and polished. It had been a gift from General Lamarque, for his devoted services, two years ago. But as much as he had loved the man, Enjolras couldn't make himself appreciate it. 

He loathed his limp and the ways it impacted his life. The fact that he couldn't stand too long without reaching for something to lean on. The pity drooling out of his fellow citizens' eyes. The banging of his cane on the pavement when he walked the streets. More than anything, he hated the way his body was betraying him in every move, like it wasn't his anymore. Some days, it was enough to convince him to stay home all day long, writing until his hand hurt and his pen broke.

He hated going out, but it was the only way to numb the pain. Therefore, he braced himself and went downtown.

Years had passed, and yet Paris felt the same: like the hand of a mother, stroking the hair of some of her children, while slapping the face of others. The Louvre on one bank, hovels on the other. She was flawed and bruised, but Enjolras had never once thought of leaving her. One cannot leave his mother. And Paris had been more of a mother to Enjolras than the real one was.

As much as he hated walking with his damaged limb, the city made it bearable. Paris in the spring was pure beauty: flowers at the windows, street songs between children's lips, the warm embrace of the sun. The puddles mirrored the sky, creating blue spots in the mud. 

 Of course, it was no perfection. Paris, even though she was beautiful, was still a woman, and moles and scars marred her face. Enjolras couldn't help but see the shoeless children crowding in dark alleys, the wide-eyed women whose shawls did not manage to hide the thinness, or the red, calloused hands of the workmen. Old and young faces sharing the same rags. They were Paris's offspring too, and two years ago, Enjolras had been hoping to save them all.

And despite everything, he was still hoping. 

This time, his feet took him near the Halle aux blés. He liked the noises, the shouts and the hurry of the workers, the crowd gathering in the round building. He liked to think that he belonged here, among the people. 

He was so deep in thought that he didn't notice right away the carriage storming out a shady alley. There were shouts and a strong hand grabbing his shoulder, and then he was on the floor, surrounded by bystanders.

"You alright, m’sieur?" said a tough-looking man ‒ probably the one who had pulled him out of the carriage's way. 

"I'm fine". Enjolras was panting, his heart pounding. He got back on his feet, searching for his cane. A kind-hearted woman had kept it from rolling over the street, where it would surely have been wrecked by another vehicle. Enjolras clutched it to his chest. The object brought a bitter taste in his mouth, but it had been a gift from a man who was like a father to him. 

Suddenly, a man emerged from the crowd. He looked like a bourgeois, red-faced and wrapped in a cloak so ugly that it must be trendy. 

"God Almighty! I hope you aren't harmed! I cannot express how sorry I am !" He patted brutally Enjolras' shoulder, almost making him wince in discomfort. "My coachman is an incompetent fool ! He nearly trampled you!"

"I am well", answered Enjolras. "Monsieur... ?"

"Oh, I forgot myself !" He took his hat off and extended a gloved hand. "Jean de Caudry, at your service, monsieur."

Enjolras had to restrain his scowl. Most bourgeois had abandoned their dreams of nobility after Louis Philippe's demise, and hearing the small "de" in Caudry's introduction was a surprise, and not a pleasant one. He shook stiffly Caudry's hand, and introduced himself :

"Julien Enjolras. It's a pleasure to meet you."

It was, in fact, not, but he had learned choosing his battles a long time ago. Offending citizens on the street over a prevented carriage accident wasn't going to do him any good. 

"Monsieur Enjolras ! Of course ! Lamarque’s boy ! You’re a fellow senator of a friend of mine. Pasqueaux, you must know him…”

“I don’t have this pleasure, I’m afraid.” Enjolras was growing irritated. De Caudry rubbed him in the wrong way, like a persistent itch in his side. “If you will excuse me, I must go. There are things that need my attention, and I can’t let myself be delayed.”

"Of course ! It was a pleasure making your acquaintance. Here is my card, if you feel the need to visit me someday. I must excuse myself, but I am expected somewhere. Business, right ? You know how it is…”

Enjolras nodded and put the card in his pocket without a glance. He tipped his hat and started to walk away. The whinnying of the horses and the snapping of the reins informed him that De Caudry had gotten back in his carriage and was continuing his journey. As the vehicle overtook him, he lifted his eyes and immediately froze, stuck by a lightning.

There was a face behind the carriage’s window, staring at him from afar. Blue eyes on pale skin. A ghost from the past. 

Grantaire.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter : PTSD and beginnings of sexual slavery

In the months following the June Rebellion, Enjolras’ nights had been filled with dreams.

Some of them were nightmares. Some of them were not, but that was rarer. Most times, he woke up breathless, sweating so much he believed to be drench in blood, his leg hurting like Hell. He dreamed of the smells of powder, the thunder of guns and the stiffness of the corpses around him, blood pouring out of their mouths and harsh voices whispering:

_Why, Enjolras ? Why did you survived ? You belong with  us. Why did we had to die ?_

He did not tell Lamarque. The man had enough trouble trying to rebuild the world: there was no need to distract him with something as foolish as dreams. Lamarque would worry, ask questions, and Enjolras didn’t want that. He could handle it and still do his job correctly. The dreams would go away after some time.

They didn’t.

Eventually, he asked the apothecary for some medicines to numb the pain and tried to ignore the weight in his chest. The drugs made the dreams go away and he hadn’t slept a night without it since. The pills brought him peace, or something alike.

And yet, today felt like a dream.

He had recognised him, without any doubt. Those blue eyes, sharp and clear, had haunted his night on more than one occasion. But they had been the eyes of a corpse, and the Grantaire he had seen in De Caudry’s carriage was alive.

Enjolras breathed, and searched his pocket. He drew the card De Caudry had given him with a trembling hand.

A name. An address. Someone who knew how to find Grantaire.

A shaky laugh found its way out of his throat. He leaned on his cane, trying to take a breath he didn’t remember being knocked out of him. He felt like electricity running through his veins. He felt-

Insane. Totally and utterly insane.

Grantaire couldn’t be alive. He had felt his hand, cold, so cold, in his own, as his eyes turned blank. Grantaire had died with bullets in his chest and a frozen smile on his lips, as if it was the only sensible thing to do.

And yet-

He couldn’t help but hope.

 

* * *

 

De Caudry’s townhouse was located at 26, Rue de Berlin. It was a recent district, built in white stones and new money.

Enjolras had waited a few days, failing to lose himself in his papers. Doubt and hope crashed upon him like waves, one after the other, leaving him more restless than he had ever been.

Eventually, some harsh words thrown at the boy who brought him dinner had earned him a loud scolding from his housekeeper, who had grown fond of the child. She had thrown him out as a punishment, ordering him to not come back before he had gotten his manners back.

After some wandering in the streets, he decided it was time to confront his hopes and reality.

It was a servant who opened the door. The card served its purpose and introduced Enjolras past the door. He was led through a lavishly-furnished corridor, to an even more lavish salon. Everything was mirrors, silk and marble.

Enjolras scowled. Having lived his whole childhood in houses as rich as this one didn’t make it easier to see how the money spent on these embroideries could have fed a family for ten years. He remembered when, a lifetime ago, he had visited Feuilly in the room he shared with three other men ‒ the moisture on the walls, the shivering cold that killed even the roaches ‒ and he felt himself be filled by intense disgust.

It was as if the nobility had migrated to new lands, planting the seeds of greed into the bourgeois’ houses. Many little Versailles had sprouted out of the ground since 1832, while children were still starving in the gutter.

“Monsieur Enjolras, what a pleasant surprise ! I did not expect you so soon !”

Enjolras turned around and found De Caudry, clothed in a dressing grown.  Like in their first encounter, the man seemed overly enthusiastic.

“If I’m interrupting, I can-“

“Not a all ! Really, Monsieur, you bless my house by your presence.” De Caudry said, throwing himself in a plush sofa. “Can I offer you some refreshments ? Coffee, maybe ? I just got a new arrival from Brazil !”

Enjolras nodded and sat stiffly in an armchair, leaning his cane against the furniture, while De Caudry pulled on a silk rope connected to a bell. Immediately, a servant girl entered, pushing a tray.

“Well,” said De Caudry. “I must thank you for your visit, Monsieur. I can imagine that you must be busy, with this whole affair at the Parliament.”

“I am, it’s true. Thank you,” he said to the girl when she put a cup of coffee in front of him. “But I’m not here to talk about work. There’s a favour I need to ask you.”

“All you need to do is ask, my friend.”

Enjolras nearly winced. He would rather die than counting a man like this one as his friend. However, he was his only clue in finding Grantaire.

“When we met last week, near the Halle aux blés, I saw someone in your carriage. A young man.  I would like to make his acquaintance.”

A smile burst on De Caudry’s face.

“Oh, I see. I wouldn’t have thought… But yes, of course. I could fetch him now, if you want !”

Enjolras’ eyes went wide. It was a miracle that his voice didn’t falter when he said :

“It would be ideal.”

De Caudry pulled on his rope one more time, and the girl appeared as fast as the first time.

“Bring the boy. I want to see him.” He ordered.

For the first time since he had seen her, Enjolras saw a glimpse of something flicker on the girl’s face: fear, or surprise, or both. However, it went away before he could interpret the meaning of it. She stared briefly at Enjolras, and then vanished behind a closed door.

Just a moment later, she was back, a young man following her trail. Seeing him, Enjolras could only gape in shock.

The man was small and dark-haired. His skin was so pale that it looked translucent. His head was bowed, but Enjolras could discern blue eyes, as deep as the sea.

It was Grantaire, without a doubt. Alive, and standing right in front of Enjolras.

He was also entirely naked.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings : sexual slavery, acts of sexual intimacy without consent on both parts

Enjolras couldn’t move.

He saw Grantaire walk slowly to De Caudry’s side, but his brain couldn’t get a grasp of the meaning of the scene. His eyes followed the movement as Grantaire knelt in front of De Caudry, head silently bowed. His hand rose, brushing De Caudry’s pants.

“Not now, boy.” De Caudry purred, petting Grantaire’s dark hair. “There’s someone who has come specially to meet you.”

Grantaire nodded, face blank, then fell on his hands and knees and crawled toward Enjolras. He then proceeded to stay at his feet, head bowed and hands on his tights, probably waiting… for what ? An order ? A hand in his hair, like De Caudry’s ? Something worse ?

Enjolras felt sick. He had known, of course ‒ or at least suspected ‒ that there were people uptown who liked to play this kind of twisted games. But it was another thing to see it with his own eyes. To see a man debased like this, it was the purest form of what Enjolras had been fighting against his whole life.

“What a vision !” De Caudry laughed. “I’ve had boys like him before, but he’s certainly one of the prettiest.”

Pretty wasn’t a word Enjolras would have ever thought being employed when talking of Grantaire. The man he had know before the barricades had been stocky, red-faced and crude. The creature between his legs was skinny, pale and silent. The former Grantaire couldn’t have been called “pretty” by any means, but this version was even worse.

“Well, you’re not going to sit there doing nothing, aren’t you ? Show him what you’ve got, _slave_.”

Without any warning, Grantaire jumped into action. He climbed into Enjolras’ lap, pressing his lean body against his. He bowed his head, and his mouth found Enjolras’ neck, laying down a trail of kisses.

Enjolras was at loss of words. How did De Caudry dare treat a human being like this ? Ordering him around, calling him _slave_ and forcing him to initiate an intimate act with a stranger ? Only the very filth of the world would act this way. Enjolras wanted to slam the bourgeois to the ground and beat him bloody, until his body was red and cold, not even strong enough to plead‒

Grantaire whimpered.

The pained sound drew Enjolras out of his trance. In his fury, his hands had gripped Grantaire’s arms so hard that his fingers had left red marks on his skin. A sharp pang of guilt striked him. He had done this. Hurting someone he should have protected. (“ _Again._ ”, whispered the voices of the dead)

Misinterpreting his reaction, De Caudry said :

“He’s pleasant, isn’t he ? A talented mouth ! You should have seen him when I bought him. A brute ! He couldn’t hold his tongue, I had to break him out of that habit. But now, he’s nothing but obliging. Show your gratitude to Monsieur Enjolras for being here with us, boy.”

With horror, Enjolras felt Grantaire grinding his hips against him. It was a dancer’s movement, meant to be languid and alluring, but it only served to ignite further Enjolras’ anger.

Two years ago, he would have pushed Grantaire away and gone to De Caudry, letting his fists speak of his fury. But now he knew better. Attacking De Caudry would be satisfying, but it would only serve the purpose of getting him thrown out of the house while keeping Grantaire inside. He could go find a policeman, but that would mean wasting time, a time that the bourgeois could use to hurt Grantaire. No, he had to find another way. One that followed the rules of De Caudry’s twisted game.

“He’s… lovely, for sure. But I would enjoy him much more in a more adapted setting.”

De Caudry burst into laughing.

“Of course ! You should see the wonders he can do in a bed ! Take him to yours for a few days, make the better of him ! I don’t mind lending him to you. That’s what friends are for, isn’t it ?”

Enjolras had to restrain himself to punch him in the face. Instead, he set a cold smile on his face :

“Naturally.”

De Caudry seemed pleased by his response, and pulled again the rope. The maid materialized again by his side.

“Girl, bring some clothing for the slave. My friend want to take him with him, and we cannot have him running the street naked, can we ?”

This time, while the girl stared at the show displayed for her eyes, Enjolras was able to recognize the emotions on her face. It was anger, deep and firm anger, directed against De Caudry and Enjolras himself.

Enjolras knew what she must be seeing. He was dying to tell her that he wasn’t like De Caudry, that he would not hurt Grantaire like this, nor any man or woman. But he had to keep the pretence, and so he endured her cold, unforgiving gaze while she brought a stack of clothes and helped Grantaire dressing himself.

Eventually, Enjolras get hold of Grantaire’s arm and hurried them out of this damned house. On the street, he hailed a coach, determined to get the two of them as far as possible from De Caudry and his vices.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings : hints of police brutality and drugs consumption

The coach dropped them right in front of Enjolras’ flat, on the Place des Vosges.

What had once been an upper-class square, when it was still called “Place Royale“, was now housing workshops, stores and warehouses. Enjolras had always liked the place : the garden where children played while their parents were shopping under the arches, the high windows, the red brick walls.

This place looked alive : more than any estate that Enjolras has ever lived in. And he didn’t have to walk very far to find the daily necessities. It was a relief for his damaged limb.

The stairs, however, were not. And this time, he had to pull a numb Grantaire behind him.

The man had stayed silent for the whole ride, despite Enjolras’ attempts to strike up a conversation. His glassy eyes didn’t seem to register what was going on around him : he hadn’t even flinched when Enjolras had brushed his shoulder in the coach when the vehicle had suddenly jolted at some point.

He found the place empty : his housekeeper must have went looking for something for dinner, and God knew where Poulot was. Enjolras felt a pang of guilt overcome him : the boy was probably hiding somewhere, unwilling to face him after his harshness earlier that day.

He sighed and led Grantaire trough the apartment to the guest room. It was a bit dusty, for Madame Lefebvre was not keen on cleaning thoroughly a room which wasn’t used regularly, but that would have to do.

Enjolras had to help Grantaire sitting on the bed. His state was beginning to worry him : De Caudry had obviously given him something that clouded his mind. Enjolras had been a student among others : he knew that there were substances which could inebriate men. Courfeyrac had been fond of them, and even Combeferre had sometimes indulged in it. However, Enjolras himself had never experienced such things, and he had no knowledge of what was possessing Grantaire, or when he would come back to himself. Not knowing what to do, he ended up helping Grantaire in laying under the blankets and exited the room with a sinking feeling in his chest.

Never in his life had he ever felt so helpless. Even when he had awakened in Lamarque’s house, blood still coating his clothes, after the barricade.

When he had seen Grantaire, he had thought that at least one of his friends had been saved. That they could heal their wounds together and enjoy this new life bought with the blood and flesh of people they had loved. But he was beginning to realise that maybe Grantaire hadn’t been saved yet.

A noise coming from the kitchen drew him out of his thoughts. He strode towards it and found out a scrawny kid curled up on the hearth, staring at the fire.

Enjolras had found Poulot a few months ago ‒ or rather Poulot had found him. Enjolras had just been out of a meeting with his fellow senators, when he had felt a tiny hand trying grab the contents of his pocket. Instead, it had been him who had grabbed the boy, which, as he would learn later, was called Poulot and had been starving for two days before their encounter.

It would have been easy to bring him to a policeman, but Enjolras wasn’t stupid : he knew what would happen to the child if he did. Society was changing, but that was a slow evolution, and the police wasn’t gentle with those who still lived in the gutter.

So, he had brought him to a bakery and bought him some bread and a candy cane. The child had looked at him like he had grown a second head but had grabbed the food anyway before running away.

Enjolras would have thought that he would never see the kid again, but the next day, he had found him in his kitchen with Madame Lefebvre cooking him a soup. Apparently, his housekeeper had found him in the park and had taken a liking to him.  She had told him the child reminded her of her own children, who had been gone long ago, and that she intended to keep him. Enjolras had no problem with that. He had also known a child like that, long ago.

And thus, Poulot had become a part-time member of Enjolras’ household.

The kid saw Enjolras standing in the doorway and greeted him with a shy smile which showed some missing teeth.

“Hello, M’sieur Enjolras. Need a service ?”

“Hello, Poulot. Yes, I need you. Could you go and fetch a doctor ?”

“You sick, m’sieur ?”

“A friend of mine is. Come on, go and I’ll buy you something at Stohrer’s.”

Poulot nodded and stood as he said :

“I want a Baba and an éclair !”

“I said _one_ thing.”

“You said _some_ thing. Now I’m going, you can’t take it back !” And then, he disappeared through the hall.

Well, now Enjolras just had to wait for the doctor. He hoped he would help to figure how to put a bit of life in Grantaire’s eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes :  
> The 6 Place des Vosges was Victor Hugo's house for a few years. Yes, I made Enjolras live in the same house as his creator because I had no idea where to put him.  
> Also, Stohrer is a famous bakery in Paris. The "Baba" and "éclair" are two french pastries : the baba au rhum and éclair au chocolat. (delicious !)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings : discussion of drug consumption, with understating of the risks due to it.

Doctor Villeneuve was a short man with spectacles that seemed always on the verge of falling off. His voice was made for soothing children and coaxing adults, an aptitude that Enjolras was grateful of.

“I don’t know what’s going on with him.” Enjolras said. “He’s been like that since I found him. And I can’t… I just found him after all these years, I can’t lose him, this time.”

“He’s not dying, Monsieur Enjolras.” The doctor leaned towards Grantaire, studying his eyes. “See how his pupils have shrunk ? He smoked opium, that’s all. It happens to the best of us.”

“How can you say that !” Enjolras shouted. “He’s sick. He won’t respond to me, and I don’t know what to do, and you don’t seem to take it seriously‒”

“Young man ?” the doctor said. “I need you to calm down. Go somewhere else, and when you’ll feel better, bring me a wet cloth.”

There was the voice, not really an order but a strong recommendation. Dr Villeneuve was good at those ‒ as had been Lamarque.

Enjolras sighed and left the room promptly. He went to the kitchen and found the bucket Madame Lefebvre used to wash her linen. He wetted his handkerchief without a second thought ‒ it wasn’t like if he used it that much, anyway, it wouldn’t be missed.

When he had seen Grantaire’s piercing eyes behind the carriage’s window, he had felt something that had deserted him years ago : hope. Enjolras had lost parts of himself with the barricades, and had filled the gun holes with work and bitterness. For a time, Lamarque had given him something to do, a path to follow, but Lamarque had gone, and then Enjolras had been alone once again.

But now Grantaire was alive, and it changed everything. For the first in many years, Enjolras felt like there was something bright awaiting him at the end of the day. Grantaire and him had never been close, but it was better than Lamarques’s empty study, or the silence in the house when Madame Lefebvre was out and Poulot had gone God knew where. Grantaire was fire and wine, sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue, the embodiment of a life Enjolras never had. If someone could bring Enjolras back to life, it would be Grantaire.

He missed him, his antics and his laughs. He missed all of them, and he would take gratefully whatever was left of Grantaire.

Feeling more grounded than he had been in years, Enjolras strode towards the guest room. He found Dr. Villeneuve packing his things. Grantaire had been tucked under the covers, his dark curls spread on the white linen.

“I must leave you, I’m afraid.” The doctor said. “Put the cloth on his forehead, that’ll help him feel better.”

“Do you know when he’s going to wake up ?”

“Soon enough. Be ready with a drink and some food : that’s all you can do for him at the moment.”

He patted Enjolras’ shoulder and put his hat on :

“Just try to not let him near an opium den again. That’s the kind of things you only should do once.”

Enjolras escorted him to the street, where a carriage was already waiting for him. Before climbing in, Villeneuve turned around and recalled :

“And you should give your little hellion a slap on the wrist. He dragged me there like if all Hell was on our tail. That’s not good for my poor heart, I tell you !”

Enjolras sighed, thinking about the trip to Stohrer he still had to do, and wished the doctor goodbye. Then, he returned to the house to prepare something for Grantaire to eat when he would wake up. However, the sight that awaited him upstairs made him rethink his plans.

In the middle of the bed of the guest room, Grantaire was sitting dumfounded.


End file.
